scatter
by moeten
Summary: Once upon a time, a great Empire met and adopted an adorable baby nation, teaching him his ways and raising him in his image. This is not that story.
1. scatter

The two men are outsiders: that is clear from the moment they step into the village. The taller wore his clothing in the style of the south, with the broad forehead and sharp chin of the Wends, who were savages with savage customs (everyone knew that), but often trading partners as well: the shorter had dark skin and dark, curling hair and clothing so bright and dazzling it was ugly; who'd want to dress himself so brightly, gild himself like a copper pot? In scarcely an hour, the entire market knew about them, every man watched them with careful eyes and every woman turned their faces away. Well. Not _every _woman.

The gaudy took one of the curious maidens aside. Questioned her. Laughed with his companion, had her point the way. Within a few minutes everyone knew: they were here about the boy.

The boy. He has no name, not truly: the entire village knows who he is, and the villages around. Boy is the reason they're so successful, the reason the market moved to this town, the thing that keeps away invaders and bandits. Although Boy is a valuable treasure who _should _be fought for, somehow, no one can bring himself to raise a hand against him, risk bringing anything around him harm. And the region had thrived for it, in crops and health and peace. He is a god, surely. Now even strangers from southern lands are here to witness him.

Rome looks around as he and Germania head in the direction of the chief's house. "This place is _quaint_, isn't it?" he asks merrily, admiring the low houses and wary villagers; picturing the streets paved and populated by his own soldiers, part of the empire. He's not here to invade and conquer. But old habits.

Germania is more familiar with these people; he says nothing to argue but notes the signs. Boats and a harbour. A permanent market. An Earthen wall. Compared to Rome it may be quaint, but by his land's standards this village is well on its way.

"Seems the rumours were true," Rome says cheerfully, noticing the signs too. There's someone like them here. An immortal child. Rome chortles and elbows him in the ribs. "Aw! Lookit you, about to be a proud daddy!" he coos. "I wish I could find a baby nation or two! Hellas never let Greece have anything to do with me, and _Egypt—_"

He continues to ramble. Germania imagines raising a child nation and suppresses a shudder. No. Rarer in Rome's more developed house, these children are like weeds in the north. It seems like almost every tribe develops one, presses him on Germania in search of prosperity and, inevitably, a cut of Germania's life. Inevitably, these children crumble and die with their people. They are not true nations. They disgust him a little, like flies searching for shit to feed on. This village is more developed than most, but they are farther north than he usually travels, enough that the desire to go south tugs at his naval. He wonders how Rome stands it, being so far from his own home, diminished as it is becoming. But this is Germania's land more than Rome's, and he leads the way into the chief's hut: a large, low building built into the ground itself. The inside is dim and smoky, and both men need to stop and allow their eyes to adjust, blink away the sting.

It doesn't take more than a moment to identify the boy, sitting — squirming — at the side of an older, well-dressed man: the chief. It takes the boy a few seconds longer to notice Germania and Rome, waiting for him to see and approach, but he's likely never met another of his kind before. It's a difficult feeling to describe — the pull, the clarity, the knowledge that _this _person is special, more real than those around him — and Germania can see the moment it registers for the child, his movements falling still, his head swinging around to them, his eyes wide.

Some nations would stay put, force the visitors to approach them; this child is either too young to know the power play, or too young to care. He leaps up from his bench, pulling his hand out of the chief's, and runs across the straw to the doorway. Pale hair, pale eyes — that's about all Germania can make of his appearance before Rome scoops up the child, holding him close and cuddling him enthusiastically. "Lookit you!" he coos, ever weak towards children. "Who's the cutest widdle warrior with the cutest widdle dagger? Is it you?" Germania is frankly embarrassed by this, but the boy responds enthusiastically, throwing his arms around Rome's shoulders and gladly nuzzling his cheek against him. It's doubtful the child speaks Rome's language, but nations can usually understand the gist of one another. The baby-talk probably helps. "I'm gonna settle you and build you a widdle amphitheatre and —"

Germania leaves the hut. The air outside is brisk and refreshing after the smoke of the longhouse, and he catches himself counting huts and people. The village has already attracted the attention of Empires… he imagines, with sympathy, what would happen if Hun got wind of such vulnerable lands. Germania cannot pretend he wouldn't send his men here if a need arose; even Rome, cooing, would simply destroy and remake all in his name. But even with a small harbour, the winters here are long and cold. Even Hun wouldn't exert himself to travel this far north for something so meagre.

Rome exits the longhouse, hand-in-hand with the boy. In the daylight, he appears to be perhaps four or five: round-faced, well built and well taken care of. He's a comely child, but young near-nations almost always are. The chief follows Rome and the child by a few steps. The man is quite elderly by a human standard, but is likely the boy's surrogate father and has been for years. Rome relinquishes his hold on the child, who goes to the chief's side, and Rome places his hands on his hips. "That's quite the boy you have!" he says heartily, in a badly accented but sincere attempt at the northern dialect that's been serving the pair for the past few weeks. It's not what they speak in this village, but it's similar.

The chief takes a moment to translate. "Yes," he says — Rome and Germania also take a moment to translate, Germania coming out of the junction far ahead of the others, the boy silent, watching. Does he understand them? — "He arrived forty years past. They found him in the wheat." The man gestures in their direction, his eyes following his hand, his expression distant in the memory. "He had no name — couldn't speak. They — we — called him Tenne." Meaning _threshing floor_. Germania remembers forests, endless trees and shadows. He imagines being born from fields of grain, golden and sweet-smelling.

"What a cute name!" Rome says, somewhat predictably. Germania has no comment, but the chief smiles quizzically. Tenne's gaze doesn't waver, his gaze boring into Rome and Germania with new solemnity.

"Is it true what they're saying?" the chief asks them directly. "That you men are… like Tenne?" Immortal? Nations? But Tenne is a village, not a nation, and they lead many tribes and peoples.

"We are!" says Rome proudly, also puffing up; Germania wonders if the people this far north have even heard of him, but doesn't bother deflating his companion's ego. "We've been travelling far and wide, looking for our kin. _Eh_, I said "we," but my friend…" He looks expectantly at Germania. Germania notices, and ignores.

"I've heard tell of people such as you," the chief interrupts eagerly. "Please! Take Tenne!" The boy shrinks; glances up at Rome; wavers. He glances up at Germania and sees Germania's stare. Instead of shrinking, he meets it boldly. His eyes are a sharp, clear blue. "Our village is growing, but with Tenne guiding — with your help to guide him — he will grow into a strong man like yourselves. We can become a land like the land to the south, rich, and healthy. If you guide us."

Germania looks away from the boy to speak for the first time. "Absolutely not." Rome doesn't argue. He begins to unknot a sash from his waist.

There is a chill in the air. The sun will soon begin to set. The chief seems perplexed, as if the refusal was a failure of translation. "We can pay. We will swear allegiance to a king," he continues uncertainly.

Ships in the harbour. A healthy boy born in grain. A long winter with no light from the sun, mountains of cold stone. Tenne continues to gaze up at Germania. "It doesn't matter," Germania says calmly. "There's no point in taking him."

"I don't understand…" the chief says querulously, reaching to try and grasp at the boy's hand.

Before he can pull him close, to safety, Rome crouches down before Tenne with his sash in his hands, dirty from their travels but still a bright, warm red. "It's a shame, isn't it?" he asks, his voice lilting, still half a coo, but his expression bittersweet, his gaze on only the child. "They're always so adorable! But then they vanish or die. Maybe if you were farther south, little guy! Then you'd be worth the trouble!" He wraps the sash around the boy's neck as a scarf. Worn it may be, but it's brighter and softer than the boy's rough tunic and cloak. Tenne doesn't blink, doesn't flinch, doesn't react at all to the expensive gift.

"I don't," the chief begins again. Germania is tired of this all. This pointless rumour chasing. This asked favour. Rome's cooing baby talk, his attempts to win over a child they'll never see again. This healthy child, looking at them like he's studying, neither happy or sad.

"He'll die," Germania says. "In a year, or two, or ten. You might have as many as fifty years, if the winters are warm. If the crops never fail. If no one sees your boats or fields and chooses to take them." If they hadn't come here on a whim for a rumour, and had come out of boredom or want of coin or grain. If not them, the Jutes or Wends or any of the hundreds of others. These are barbarian lands: too cold, too harsh, too far from the shining lights of civilisation, with no mountains or deep forests to hide in. A child born of threshing fields will never survive in the winter. He sees the boy put his hands to his heart, pull at the dangling cloth of his red scarf, bunch it in his fist.

"Treasure him!" says Rome with a smile. "They'll be good years, while they last. Children like Tenne are lucky for villages!"

The village will die out, and Tenne will die with it. No longer fat and comely, but gaunt and alone. How many times has Germania seen it happen? How many times have his raids set it into motion? He will never adopt a child tribe. He will never bear witness.

"But -" the chief says, now taking Tenne's hand, drawing the boy too him. He doesn't finish his sentence, staring at them accusingly, probably thinking: _no, not this child. _But this has happened before as well. Germania turns away from them. It would be best not to sleep here tonight; if they wish to make any distance before nightfall, they ought to depart now.

There was a Jute village a few days south, free of nations and rich in food.

"When you think, a human only lives for sixty or seventy years," Rome says cheerfully, lingering a moment behind Germania. He can imagine Rome is tussling the boy's blond hair; he doesn't turn back to look. "Tenne will have had almost a hundred! Treasure him while you're still alive!"

Germania hears the clanking that is Rome jogging to catch up; he passes Germania and sets their pace. It's only then that Germania looks back: the chief, holding Tenne at the shoulders, his back bent and face turned towards the boy to comfort. And the boy, Tenne, his face still turned towards the two nations, the end of his red scarf twisting in a thin breeze.

"He spoke to me," Rome says some time later, when the village is long out of sight. Germania has been trying to put the unpleasant meeting out of his mind entirely, and doesn't appreciate the reminder. "In the hut. The chief must have been planning for a while. He asked if we were going to take him to be his family."

"Don't try to make me feel guilty," Germania says coldly. Not that Rome would have been allowed to establish a colony so far in Germania's lands, not that Rome's baby talk had ever been sincere, but Germania will not tolerate hypocrisy.

"I said no," Rome says after another lull. "He was a cutie, but what would I do with a barbarian?" He brightens. "I should look for a couple of little ones closer to my place! Forget Hellas — I'll raise my own kids —"

He continues to ramble until they make camp for the night. It's only much later that Germania realises the child had never said a word to him.

* * *

><p><em>BUCKET O FOOTNOTES, pt1<em>

+ denmark is a germanic nation, but in an error, himaruya left him off of the list of Germania's Kids. (while… remembering to put sweden on OKAY HIMA) a lot of this is born from 'okay, but what if that's a plot point, not a mistake.'  
>(++ the first formal mention of the danes in writing was by a chronicler who literally said "that guy who is sweden's brother" so it's kinda hilarious to me that sweden is apparently germanic but denmark is not)<p>

+ anyway, denmark has a surprisingly long history of not getting along with germania or the vestiges of the roman empire…  
>++ if you know history you can basically figure out part two right now…?<p>

+ people have been living on and in modern denmark forever, but the first signs of the danes-as-people come from the 3rd century or so with the building of unified fortifications and the danvirke, a wall built to keep saxons (and later the holy roman empire) the hell out of jutland. according to sagas, the danes were founded by a King Dan Who Defeated Julius Augustus In A Fight, but this is pretty probably not true. anyway, denmark's likely was born anywhere between 50 BC and 200 AD and this story is set in that time, before the fall of the roman empire.

+ "denmark" comes from "den" which means "flatland/threshing land/flat" and "mark" which means "border." tenne is a german word for "threshing floor" and derides from the same as "den." the other, more fanciful argument is that it means something like "dan's border" after Cool Guy King Dan but again, lack of any proof he was real. (i'm sure denmark insists he was tho. to impress chicks.)


	2. drift

He remembers colours.

Blood dripping from his fingers, the blaze and crackle of a fire, small flowers in the grass, the colour of an animal cleaned and gutted, a cloth twisting in the wind. The flash of bird wings. The movements of a star. He has one father, but perhaps he has many: sometimes he is young, and then he's old again, and then young once more. Houses grow and collapse and are rebuilt, paths and roads spread and fade like water. A blacksmith bends and folds iron into a point. Red. His father is a child again, but soon he will change back: look, he has already.

Father complains of the long winter, but it is not winter but the beat, the rest between winter, the next lifting of the axe. Up and down. Lift and strike. Warm and cold. Young and old. Again and again. Now it is winter. Now it is warm. If crops do not come, they will in the next blow. His father is young again.

The air bites his lungs, the axe begins to chop, and men visit the place he lives and say he will die soon and die alone.

He watches his father weep, and discovers the passage of time.

* * *

><p>He understands now that this father is not his <em>only <em>father, that the child of his father will someday take his place, that the ones who came before were as well different men, and that _father _is a lie. He understands that the village grows and that winters are long to other people, that the crops of one year are not the crops of the next, and with this understanding, the world becomes very small. The elderly of the village were once his child playmates; their grandchildren will soon be old. No longer can he play in the sea with them, searching for mussels in the sand: time is moving, and they will grow old.

His father gathers the village in his longhouse and says: We must all become stronger. These are dangerous times, and we must protect the boy and ourselves. He calls Tenne to him and says: I will not allow you to die. They build a wall of sharpened logs and mounds of earth, melt iron and pound it into weapons. Tenne can no longer lose himself in the blur of his childhood. His body aches with every hammer of the blacksmith; his clothing grows too tight and small, but his father's hands begin to shake and eyes begin to lose sight.

One day Tenne leaves the village for the fields, leaves the fields for the forest, wraps the red cloth around his ears against the cold. He runs until he finds another village, eight longhouses and two boats on the shore. He's never seen people outside of his home before. His heart pounds at him like feet crushing grain and he thinks: Perhaps this is where the men live. Perhaps he can find them here, and ask them. He doesn't want to die. If he is strong, if they take him as his father had said — _  
><em>

The Jutes have not heard of the men, but have of him: Tenne is taken captive.

* * *

><p>He is with the Jutes for a long time, in their leader's longhouse for enough years that they begin to soften around the edges. They wish for him to bless their harvests, so he does: they wish for him to bless their ships, so he does, using their words and their gods, close but different from his own. In the dark, smoky house, he is warm and fed, but he does not know if his blessings come true. One chief is replaced by another, or perhaps it is the same man — Tenne stares into the nothingness, unable to fight the rise and fall, the pounding of the hammer.<p>

He hopes that the men will come again — drawn to him in the swinging time as before, tell him again he will die: no! He will not die! He rouses himself and finds himself staring into the house's fire, his hands wrapped in his red cloth. The air is too smoky, and he gasps and coughs, pushing his way out of the hut. The night is clear and cold — it is winter. Tenne doesn't know how many winters it has been. He breathes the sharp air, so deeply it hurts, until he is awake: some of the other villagers eye him warily, but he just sits on the frozen ground and looks up at the stars. One of them is red.

The Jutes take him raiding, now that he is big enough to hold an axe: they target one village and then another, killing the men and taking the women and children and livestock._ Juteland!, _they cry. They fight for land, for food, for health. The fourth village they target has an earthen wall and a harbour fallen into disrepair: It pulls at him. When the fighting is over he stands at the shore, looks out at the water and tries to remember. "Tenne!" cries an old woman, seeing him as she is corralled towards the other survivors —

He turns and sees her run through, too old to be of real use or value. The woman's body falls to the ground. He remembers the beach, the mussels, playing with the other children and the men from the south. _Ninety years is a long time for a human. _

Tenne runs.

* * *

><p>It is winter again, and he sees himself standing in the snow: a boy with worn out clothes caked in snow, his head covered but for eyes and a few wisps of straw-coloured hair, the ratty tail of a cloth fluttering in the snowy wind. But no, he realises with a dizzy feeling: he is walking <em>north<em> and this him is walking _south, _his scarf is red and this other one is brown, and his heart is pounding like it had so long ago when the door to the longhouse had been lifted open.

He doesn't move. Neither does the other boy. His blood is pounding in his fingers, his stomach, his head, his heart, hard enough, he thinks, to crack the ice they're standing on, the ice that has silenced the sea, and his tears freeze as they slide down his cheeks: _Brother_, he says through the red cloth. _You're my brother._

They find an island in the ice and dig in the snow for branches for a fire, build a burrow and curl up together to stay warm. They've been alone, they've been walking, south for sun, north for iron; they learn everything about one another. Brothers. We are brothers. _We_. Wandering from village to village, never staying in one place: _They asked me to bless the harvest: it was too cold and they starved. __They asked me to help kill the other villages: I think they were my villages._

The sea had frozen, and they had both been drawn to it by the swinging, the space between blows, the pulse of the land: they sleep on the island in one another's arms: Dan and Svi.

(_treasure him. he'll soon be dead.)_


End file.
